


done enough talking

by gureisu



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Sexual Content, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, both kinds of happy endings, delayed gratification, make yourself feel better after his route makes you depressed, set during 707's route, seven's torso, sex but make it love, spoilers for up to day 9 of 707's route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:20:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26518897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gureisu/pseuds/gureisu
Summary: One of you closes the distance, and you’re not sure who it is, but suddenly there’s just a hair’s breadth between your faces. He’s bent almost double, the tip of his nose bumping against yours, the air vibrating between you. You can feel the breath through his parted lips on your lips, and you feel your hips tremble a little, a tiny firework igniting at your core.“I’ll hang up now,” he says.
Relationships: 707 | Choi Luciel & Main Character, 707 | Choi Luciel & Reader, 707 | Choi Luciel/Main Character, 707 | Choi Luciel/Reader
Comments: 16
Kudos: 267





	done enough talking

**Author's Note:**

> This is set during 707's route, in the midst of/right after an outgoing call you can make to him at 15:27 / 3:27 PM that day. It's after the VN segment where he finally opens up to MC about his family and before the chatroom where he starts acting friendly and energetic again. In my brain, this is what MIGHT have happened in between. :D
> 
> There are a few actual lines from that call scattered throughout the first half of this fic—but, of course, I don't own those lines, or the character, or Mystic Messenger! Spoilers up to that point in the route, but if you haven't finished the route or done the secret endings you should be safe—no secrets revealed here!! 
> 
> And a quick note: I HC that MC is a little more experienced sexually, since I like to believe that she had some more normal experiences with sex and dating before meeting all these weirdos. T_T If that's not your HC though, totally fine, and it only plays a minimal role in this fic!

You sit in the middle of the bed, knees tucked up to your chest. You’ve wrapped your comforter around your legs and your arms around that—holding yourself tight, keeping everything in. The last few days have been hell. But you’d never admit that to him.

With one shaky hand, you hold your phone to your ear, your eyes screwed shut. You can hear his voice—the little lilt, the way his breath catches in his throat, the thread of gentleness running through, shocking after days after harshness. You hear it twice: once through the phone against your face and again from the corner of your room, where he’s been sitting for the last few days.

“Thank you,” he says, “for letting me remember what I had forgotten."

There’s a slight echo: first you hear his real voice, a little rougher, a little softer. A half a heartbeat later, you hear him through the phone: some of the imperfections smoothed out, tinnier, louder.

You don’t say anything—what could you say?—so he goes on. “My life is so messed up,” he says, and you hear again that now-familiar little tremor in his voice. “But now I have hope.” He pauses. “I feel like we can do anything.”

_What?_

Against your will, you open one eye, and you’re taken aback to see that he’s looking right at you.

You take him in. You’ve gotten accustomed, over the last few days, to seeing him there: hunched in the corner, laptops and screens and cords and old chips bags and soda bottles strewn around him. He’s got one leg tucked into his chest, like you—the other is sprawled out. You’ve almost memorized this posture—half-in, half-out, part of his body reflexively protecting itself while the other part reaches out. You can see the outline of his body like this even when you close your eyes. It’s no wonder you’ve barely slept.

Now, though, his yellow-gold eyes aren’t glued to his screens, as you’ve come to expect—they’re fixed firmly on your face.

You open your mouth and close it again. You don’t know what to say.

There’s a pause between you in which the universe goes up in flames and then starts all over again.

“I want to be with you,” he says firmly, his gaze unwavering. He doesn’t move from his corner, and you don’t move one muscle. You can feel hot tears burning in the backs of your eyes, and you push them back with sheer force of will. His eyes are questioning. He’s waiting for you.

“This is the energy you’ve given me,” he adds. You find that you’ve shut your eyes.

Three days ago, you would have been delighted to hear this from him—surprised, but delighted. Three days ago, he was a crush, a fantasy, a beautiful dream of a man. He got your sense of humor, something no one else had quite managed before. He balanced narcissism and self-deprecation in a way that made the bottoms of your feet tingle. You spent your mornings pacing the hallways, hoping he was watching through the cameras like he promised he was. You dreamt of meeting him in person. If he’d told you he liked you, you would have been thrilled. 

But now—for three days, he’d been hunched in that corner, working frantically, haunted eyes rimmed by dark circles. He’d ignored you, at best; he’d lashed out, at worst. He’d acted like a monster, frankly. He’d treated you like a stranger—worse, like an enemy.

For three days you’d been calm, gentle, polite. Patient. It wasn’t the first time you’d cared for somebody who pretended not to need you, and it wasn’t the first time someone you loved had lashed out at you. But that didn’t make it any easier. By day, you’d offered him encouragement, tried to clean up after him, tried to get him to eat. By night, you’d squeezed your eyes shut and cried into your pillow, praying he wouldn’t see, as he solemnly typed away in the corner.

“Are you listening?” he asks, his voice startling you. You peek at him through your eyelashes. He’s still watching you, and there’s a hot look in his eyes, a sort of burning that you haven’t seen in him yet—you’ve pictured it, sure, looking out the window at night, wrapped in a blanket, your phone in your hand, his voice against your face. But this is the first time—

The words pop out of your mouth before you can even process what you’re feeling.

“Yes. But come up here.”

You immediately feel your cheeks heat up, and you clap a hand over your mouth. What are you _saying_?

He jumps, dislodging a few old chips bags and almost upsetting one of his computer screens.

“What?” You can hear that his breath is ragged. In spite of yourself, you giggle. Since the first day you saw his name—one of his names, anyway—on your screen, you’ve taken pleasure in seeing him flustered. It’s one of the things that’s been bringing you comfort—how easy it is for you to make him vulnerable.

“Ho-how can I go up on the bed?” he stammers.

You laugh. You can’t help it.

“What’s wrong with coming up on the bed?” you ask, forcing a steady voice.

You feel the threat of tears behind your eyes again. It feels like so long since you’ve laughed.

“Well, I’m not saying something’s wrong, but thi-this laptop! If I put it on the bed, the air won’t flow. And then the CPU will get overheated…” he mumbles, falling over his words. His cheeks are pink, and now he’s looking anywhere but at your face. 

Maybe it’s the heady rush of power you feel all of a sudden—the power to turn the defensive, bitter boy of the last few days into a stuttering mess. Maybe it’s the lightness you feel between you, unlike anything you’ve felt in days. Maybe it’s the relief of knowing that all the horrible things he’s been saying to you are lies. You don’t know what it is. But you feel bold.

As he continues to stammer, you wiggle to the edge of the bed, letting your feet peek out over the edge. You nudge the blanket aside and stretch out your bare legs, knowing it will torment him.

“Yeah, uh, anyways,” he mutters, taking you in. His eyes are so wide. Did you put on your littlest shorts today on purpose, just to see if it would get his attention? You can neither confirm nor deny that.

“Still, if you want me to go up… I’ll do it later. After this is done…” he murmurs, tearing his gaze from you, fixing it absently on the computer screen.

No. You’re not going to let him win this one.

You want to run to him, to touch his cheeks, his jaw, run your fingers down his neck and feel his pulse. When he was just a voice over the phone, he seemed so close; since he’s been in your apartment, he’s felt so much farther away, barricaded into his corner by screens and his own bad temper.

You run your eyes slowly up and down him. His gaze almost immediately drifts back to you, and you see his cheeks, already pink, flush redder as your eyes meet. You face him full-on, phone still clutched against your face, letting yourself take him all the way in with your eyes, something you haven’t dared to do once since he’s been here. 

_Since_ when _am I like this?_

“Should we just look at each other like this right now?” he says, after a moment. His voice is soft. He’s leaning forward, like he’s reaching for you. Deciding whether it’s safe to bridge the gap of screens, the wall of his defensiveness.

You bite your lip.

“…I have to work, but I feel sleepy,” he says. His eyes are all over you: your legs, your hips, the little bit of skin poking out under your shirt, your neck, your face. You feel almost _ravished_ by him—and yet he’s still in the corner, still so desperately, painfully far away.

“I’ll just look at you like this and take a short break,” he says. “And if I can’t stand it… I’ll go sit beside you.”

He’s got his fingers on the keyboard again, a gesture toward working, but his eyes are still roving over you.

It feels like you’ve never quite seen him before, not really. His mussed-up red hair hangs over his forehead, and you can make out the individual strands, the perfectly effortless way his bangs fall just short of his eyes. Even through his sweatshirt, you can see his toned shoulders, his firm chest.

_For a man who lives on chips and soda, he’s a fucking beast,_ you think. You laugh at yourself a little. _I guess he_ is _a secret agent, after all._

“No more jokes over the phone, okay?” he says, as if he thought this was all a joke—but the texture of the air between you says otherwise. You giggle—you can’t help it. The joke is imagining that any of this could be a joke.

“Oh…you’re smiling again,” he murmurs. “You’re so cute.” 

It’s been a while since he’s called you cute.

He laughs a little, lower, not his usual lighthearted giggle. Before you realize what he’s doing, he’s standing—moving seamlessly from leaning against the corner to standing at his full height. He crosses the room in just a few strides. His legs are long.

You mouth “hi” at him as he approaches, awkwardly stopping just in front of you. He looms over you as you perch on the edge of the bed; your head just reaches his chest. It’s the closest you’ve ever been to him. You can see every wrinkle in his t-shirt. You’re hit at once by his scent, a mixture of wood and honey and—something very familiar.

_He’s been using my shampoo._

You laugh again. He may have pushed you away with all his might—but every evening, when he retreated to the apartment’s small bathroom, he’d been washing his hair with your freaking melon shampoo. And you _know_ he brought his own—you saw it on the shower ledge. How could you not notice? As much as he’d begged you to pretend he wasn’t there, there were little signs all over the place reminding you that he was living there too.

_Who’s been missing who?_ you wonder vaguely, letting your eyes roam slowly up his chest to his face. His cheeks are pink, but his eyes are sure.

Tangling your fingers in the blanket, you tilt your head up to him. You know the way he’s looking at you—you know what it means, and you know what he wants from you. But after the way he’s treated you, you’re certainly not going to make the first move. You’ll invite it—hadn’t you _been_ inviting it, since the moment you first met him?—but you won’t be the one to make it. Not after the things he’s said to you—the lies, the meanness. This one’s on him.

He leans forward, centimeter by centimeter, and you can feel his warm breath on your face. For a moment, you’re distracted—he’s perfectly clean-shaven, you realize, taking in his cheeks which are nearly brushing against your own. . _Has he been taking the time to shave, too?_

One of you closes the distance, and you’re not sure who it is, but suddenly there’s just a hair’s breadth between your faces. He’s bent almost double, the tip of his nose bumping against yours, the air vibrating between you. You can feel the breath through his parted lips on your lips, and you feel your hips tremble a little, a tiny firework igniting at your core.

“I’ll hang up now,” he says abruptly, taking you by surprise. You didn’t realize you were still holding your phone to your ear. At the sound of his voice, unexpectedly loud, absurdly close, you jump, and the sudden movement is enough—without warning, your lips are on his. They brush once, twice, and then he presses his lips hard against yours, kissing you desperately, kissing you with the force of a boy who’s spent his whole life wanting and never having—who’s spent three days that felt like a lifetime fighting against his instincts, wishing, craving—you. Craving you.

Somewhere in the distance, as if through a veil, you hear two phones fall to the ground. His lips move against yours, begging for more—your lips part slightly, and you feel his tongue graze against them once, just barely touching, before flitting back into his mouth.

_He’s a good kisser_. Idly, distantly, you wonder if this is his first kiss— _impossible_. But with the life you know he’s led, and the rules you know he’s set for himself— _could it be?_

Your thoughts trail away as you wrap your arms around him, tangling a hand in his hair. Oh, how you’ve longed to touch that hair. It’s soft, just like you’d imagined. His curls tickle your fingertips.

You clench the back of his sweatshirt with your other hand, tightly, grasping a bit of skin. He responds urgently, his chest pressing into you. 

Distantly, you sense him reach for his glasses and whip them off, throwing them carelessly behind him. You open your eyes and catch your first glimpse of his bare face—his eyes are shut, but his expression is intense. For the millionth time, you’re stuck by his beauty. For the first time, you feel a sense of _ownership_ over it.

He kisses you again, and again, and again, and you’re actually not sure who’s kissing who, but all you know is his warm lips and that honey-melon scent and his firm chest pressing into yours. Before you know it your legs are wrapped around his waist and then he’s surging on top of you, pushing you hard back onto the bed.

You let out a little moan as you fall back, as one of his surprisingly delicate hands runs tenderly along your side. He jolts, pulling his hand back as if burned.

“Are—are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—uh—um—” he stammers, holding up both his hands. You can feel every muscle in his body tense.

“Hey, Seven,” you say, grabbing his hand and placing it firmly over your heart. “I want you.”

His cheeks flare red again; the embarrassment that had gotten lost in a moment of longing and excitement has returned. “You—uh—hahaha—what?” He barely manages to get the words out, his face flushed and his gaze hazy. But you notice he doesn’t move his hand, or his body—he’s straddling you, firmly pressed against you. You can feel the waves of heat radiating off him.

_It is_ definitely _his first time doing this_. You don’t have proof and yet, somehow, you’re sure. And suddenly you realize that, for the very first time since you met him, there is something you know more about than he does.

Carefully, you sit up, holding his hips firmly with both hands so he stays on top of you. You lock eyes and then you reach for his shoulders, making sure to brush along the tight muscles there as you flick his sweatshirt down his arms. Wordlessly, he fumbles for it, helping you, wiggling his arms out of the thick fabric. You feel his eyes on you, burning your skin.

You move your hands back to his hips, gently caressing them with your fingertips. He is so _muscular_. Later, you’ll have to ask him what kind of training he went through for the agency. You’ve only ever seen him sit absolutely still for over twelve hours at a time; his body indicates that he can do a lot more than just that.

You feel his hips tremble, and then he’s on you again, both hands on your chest, pushing you back into the bed. He kisses you with trembling lips, and you can feel the energy in him, like a tightly-coiled spring. Questioningly, you run your fingers up his stomach, teasing under the edge of his t-shirt. He doesn’t stop you, so you move all around him, caressing his torso. You love the feeling of his warm, almost fevered skin under your fingers, love the way his muscles ripple with the slightest movement. He kisses you open-mouthed, heatedly, like he wants to consume you.

You tug his t-shirt up; he responds obediently, lifting his arms so you can pull it over his head. For a moment, you’re lost for words. It’s not the first male torso you’ve seen in your life, but you’ve never seen one quite like his before.

“Agent seven-zero-seven,” you say indignantly, feeling the laugh bubbling up in your throat. “Nobody said you were allowed to look like that.”

He grins down at you awkwardly, but you can sense a bit of pride in his eyes, too.

“I’ve never really thought about it,” he admits. “What I’ve really thought about, uh—I mean, what I’ve p-pictured a lot, is—” He trails off, eyes betraying him, scrolling down your small frame.

You wiggle out from under him, easily pulling your sweater up and over your head. For a moment, it’s caught in your hair—then it’s off, and you meet his eyes.

He gazes at you, reverently running his hands up your sides.

“Agent, please report,” you prompt, giggling at his earnestness. 

“You—are—so—beautiful,” he says breathily. He nibbles his lip, as if unsure what to do next.

Again, you’re reminded of his inexperience. He can create an entirely new coding language in under forty-eight hours, but with a shirtless girl in front of him, he’s stumped. 

You reach back and unhook your bra with one hand, shrugging the straps off your shoulders. His hands roam up your body, just grazing your breasts before grabbing your shoulders. This time he pulls you to him so you’re both sitting on the bed, pressed against each other. He kisses you fiercely.

Like in everything else, he’s a quick study.

You lose yourself in his kisses, in the feeling of his soft fingers against your waist. The little spark inside of you roars up. You haven’t felt _want_ quite like this before. Because it’s not just his body, though it’s thrilling—and it’s not just the sound of his laugh, though it fills you up with so many feelings you want to laugh and cry at the same time—but it’s everything you know about him and everything he’s made you feel, all the longing and hurt and pent-up desire, threatening to overwhelm you.

Before you know it, your hands are at his waist, tugging at his belt. It’s unhooked before he even notices, but he starts when you go for the zipper.

You pull back.

“You know it’s okay if you don’t want to, right?” you say. This time you’re the one with your hands up, on pause, not touching. “I only want to if you do.”

There’s a silence, and then he laughs, eyes shimmering.

“I kinda always thought that would be my line,” he admits, swiftly kissing you.

“You always thought?”

“Not that I’ve—not that I’ve pictured it or anything! Over the last week. It’s not like I’ve thought about it, but I—I—” Your eyes meet, and a moment of understanding passes between you. “Okay, maybe I’ve pictured it,” he admits, looking down. “Have you—too?”

As as answer, you let your fingers brush against him again, feeling for the zipper. This time, he stays perfectly still. You can feel him through his jeans—he’s _hard_. He quivers against your hand as you brush against him, and you slip his pants off, pulling them down over his hips. Then he helps you, sliding off the bed to jump out of them. In an instant, he’s back, scooping you up in his arms. You squeak as he swings you around, his strong body supporting you and then dropping you onto the bed. His hands cover your hips completely as he tugs your little shorts down your legs. You feel the heat building in you, almost throbbing, your body already starting to shake.

He crawls onto you, hands freely roaming your body. You meet his eyes, and they are full of fire, like he’s trying to take you in and burn you up at the same time. He’s pressed against you at just such an angle—you close your eyes, but you can still feel the blackness edging in, the breathlessness already starting to overtake you—you need—

“Seven, can you help me?” you ask, just barely catching your breath. He looks at you questioningly, a ball of nerves and excitement. Carefully, you take his hand and run it over your underwear, once, twice, separating out his fingers and then pressing his index finger against you, over your underwear, right where you need him. You move his finger for him, flicking it ever so softly against you.

He looks at you in wonder as you clench your eyes shut, stifling a moan. He keeps his fingers supple, letting you manipulate them, letting you move his finger against you faster, still just still barely touching you. The friction of your underwear between his fingertip and the center of your being is almost unbearable. Unable to help it, you moan softly, clutching at his shoulder with your other hand.

“I think I’ve got it,” he whispers, and you let go, balling your hand into a fist. He moves against you so gently, like a phantom, barely there, but it’s enough, and you feel the pressure building within you, the black closing in around your vision.

“Seven…r-right now…” you stammer, as your toes curl and the black overtakes your vision, and then the feeling crests, and you’re in outer space, floating, weightless, the only meaning in the whole world Seven’s finger against you and the explosion inside your body, and your back arches and his finger moves faster and he and your heart and the fire inside you are all one and nothing at the same time.

And then color starts to bleed back into the world.

Shaking, you grab his hand and wrap up his fingers in your own. You squint your eyes open and look at him, little waves of pleasure still washing over you. You can’t help but smile as you see his face, full of shock and wonder. And—something else, too.

Suddenly he’s leaning over you, having moved as you caught your breath, his face inches from yours again.

“I want you right now,” he says huskily, and then, in a more timid voice, “Can I? Have you?”

Again, you can’t help but laugh, and he looks slightly abashed. “Please have me, God Seven,” you say playfully, feeling lighter than you have in days, in—ever, maybe.

“Do we need a, uh,” he turns red again. Even in the midst of everything, still, the boy blushes. He switches abruptly to his 707 voice, playful, protecting himself from the awkwardness. “707 to Agent 606, urgent message, inquiring about the presence of a condom, over,” he says into his hand, as if talking into a walkie-talkie.

You snort. “If Rika had the place stocked with condoms, I didn’t find any,” you say. “But maybe that’s because _someone_ told me I couldn’t open any drawers.”

He laughs, but a look of genuine concern crosses his face.

“I’m on the pill,” you say frankly. “And I’m totally healthy, so if you are too, I don’t mind—”

“I—I _definitely_ don’t have anything,” he says honestly. “I mean, I’ve actually never—I don’t have any, uh—data. On this.” 

You understand.

“Then mission approved, over,” you say, pretending to grab his fake walkie-talkie.

“Ugh, you’re so _cute_ ,” he groans, and he’s kissing you again, your lips and your face and your jaw and your neck, trailing little soft kisses across your neck and then kissing you harder, biting down, grasping at you with his teeth.

You feel the space-feeling again, the darkness at the corners of your vision. You tear your underwear off and reach for his and he helps you, kissing you again and again as he wriggles out of it. You reach for him, gently brushing your fingers over his tip—he shudders, and you can see his golden eyes darken, clouding over with desire.

You run your hand up and down him a few times, thrilling at the way he responds, the way his arms shake as he holds himself over you. Gently, you guide him to you and help him slide inside you. You buck your hips against him, pushing him farther in, and he gasps, his eyes scrunching shut with surprise and pleasure.

And then his hands are grasping at your hips and he’s grinding into you, pushing himself deeper. You clench your thighs and push up your hips, helping him, squeezing against him. His breath is ragged. For a moment, you’re off-rhythm, and then he instinctively rocks into you, gripping your shoulders hard with shaking hands.

He rocks his body against you again, more confidently, but this time you lose your rhythm, and he slips out of you.

“Come here,” he growls, and then he’s slid from the bed and standing beside it, in another almost impossibly swift movement. You push yourself toward him, kicking your legs up onto his shoulders. His eyes widen for a moment—he opens his mouth, closes it, and then zeroes in on you again, grasping your thighs with both hands and slipping back into you. You squeak as his fingers clench your thighs, grasping, bruising. For a fleeting moment, you’re lost in that pain, and you want it to continue, want him to hold you, grab you, scratch you—mark you, claim you, make you his.

A low groan escapes his lips. You slip your legs down, curling them around his hips, and he rocks into you faster as he starts to shake. Your hands are on your own face, and then tangled in your hair, and you look up at him just at the right moment and catch the look of utter ecstasy in his eyes—they are clear, pure, sparkling, molten gold, and he moans softly as his whole body trembles. Gradually, he stops moving, grabbing hard at your thighs and shutting his eyes. You relish in the feeling of his fingers marking up your legs and the utter pleasure you feel radiating from him. And then, in a flash, he’s slipped out of you and catapulted himself onto the bed, and he’s covering your face with feather-light kisses.

Your eyes meet: his pupils are huge in his simmering eyes. His cheeks are flushed. He looks more _alive_ than you’ve seen him, but that’s not really surprising—you’ve mostly seen him just starting at a computer screen, after all.

“Hiya,” he says, touching your own hot cheeks with two fingers.

For once, you’re the one to feel embarrassed. You giggle nervously.

“Did we really just do that?” you say.

He gets it, of course. The absurdity of it all. He always does—it’s why you liked him in the first place. He flops over onto his back, and the sound of his familiar cackle comforts you.

“That was a big change, huh,” he says, still laughing.

“It wasn’t…expected,” you admit, nudging him playfully with your foot. Then you reluctantly scoot yourself to the edge of the bed.

“One sec,” you say, catching his look of concern immediately. “I’m going to go clean up. I’ll be right back.”

You go into the little bathroom and clean yourself off. You’re in a sort of daze—you catch a glimpse of your face in the little mirror over the sink, and you look _totally fucked_ , you think—hair mussed, face pink, eyes glazed over.

_I can’t believe this is my life right now._

You pull your robe from the hook in the hall and wrap it around your shoulders, slowly making your way back to the bed. He’s pulled his underwear and jeans back on, but they’re unbuttoned, and he’s lying across your pillows, red curls falling messily over his forehead.

_I can’t_ believe _this is my life._

You perch on the side of the bed and he turns to face you, eyes alight. He spots your bare legs and runs a finger over the marks he left, already starting to purple.

“Hey—you’re gonna bruise here,” he says, a familiar tone of worry in his voice. “I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you? I totally did. I’m really, really—”

You stop him with a finger—a whole hand, really—over his lips.

“I liked it,” you say firmly. “Every single thing about it.” That shuts him up. “As a matter of fact,” you say, eyes dancing, “I believe you mentioned something about never doing this before, so how on _earth_ did you do that with your fingers? I mean, you were _really_ amazing.”

He grins, and there’s a hint of the old 707 you know from the messenger in his face, but there’s a depth there too, a depth you’ve only just started to uncover. “Hacker’s fingers,” he says simply. “I’ve always been skilled with my hands.”

There’s a prolonged pause. And then you snatch a pillow from under him and hit him square in the face with it.

He responds instantly, grabbing another pillow and hurling it at you. You run from him, tripping over your phone as you stumble across the room. He turns his back for another pillow-missile, and you scoop up your phone—thankfully unharmed—and press the first number in your recent calls.

He starts as his phone rings from the floor. Glancing at you suspiciously, he lunges for it. Presses a button. In that gesture, you see the days of distraction and worry and longing, of waiting for a call and dreading it at the same time, of deliberating and not calling and calling and messaging and pining. As he holds the phone to his ear, you see the pleasure and confusion in him, the hesitant hopeful satisfaction that is all new for him. You see the truth that is between the two of you now, too—you can feel it in the air. The secret understanding of what has passed and what is to come.

“Hello?” he says into the phone, but his eyes are on you. And he starts to laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> DO I genuinely believe it's canon that they did it right in the middle of this route?? Probably...not. But is it awesome to think that when Seven comes back on the chatroom after this with his "hiya hey hey" this is the reason why he's feeling better? Uh, YEAH.
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed!!


End file.
